


Trifles

by orphan_account



Category: White Collar
Genre: Community: comment_fic, Consent Issues, Experimental, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Peter/Neal, coercion</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trifles

Peter's going to take from Neal, and Neal isn't used to giving up anything without hauling something back. Their first semblance of an argument occurs over Neal's Italian coffee maker, Peter insisting Neal share his assets, Neal insisting Peter offer him free breaks to refill with purified water downstairs, and ends amiably enough. Peter is upright at work; he agrees to fair exchanges.

The fifth time Neal puts coffee on Peter's desk, he raises his hand just enough to brush against Peter reaching for his overture and smiles. It's an eyebrow lift he would offer a receptionist, leading her step by step into the doorway while Mozzie dissected her cabinets; the dimple lines of a student requesting an extension, then tripling the length once he received acquiescence; the kind of smile he eliminated in prison from his repertoire. It's his oldest smile. It's an affectation that only mounts Neal Caffrey's face the right way: approach with ease, but it's unlikely I'll do what you want. He has shown it to Peter before.

A series of ripostes begins with the first twitch of muscle.

Diana, leaning over his desk, like collections over a debtor with hunger squeezing the other end. "How's your first week been, Caffrey?"

Peter happens to pass by. He nods to Diana and gives a half-nod to Neal. "He's not done with it. Caffrey, get back on my case," he says, and pats Neal's shoulder close enough to his neck that fingers catch skin. 

Jones, eyeing Neal's newly relocated desk. "That's almost a textbook surveillance angle from Peter's office." He glances up to confirm Peter's absence. "Look, don't think he doesn't trust you enough to keep his eyes off you. He did that to pretty much all of us at first."

Peter wants to talk behind a conference room's shaded glass, a lot, and invite Neal to dinners where the seating arrangements put them closer than a neutral observer would expect for a half of a married couple and a felon on his probation. Neal scoots his chair closer whenever Peter tries to sit on his desk. Peter arrives at and leaves work at the same times Neal does, standing in the middle of the elevator where a comfortably distant position would be an exercise in contortion, and shakes Neal's hand every time an undercover op could possibly allow it. Neal, on a flight twelve states and five hours too long, controls the droop of his head quarter-inch by quarter-inch toward Peter's shoulder, and measures how long it takes Peter to relax the tendons under Neal's cheek.

The dry air in the cabin does its work for a minute. "You," Peter rasps. His fingers jerk toward his palms, as though he has to rein himself into the squashed economy seats and the overloud fan and the flight attendant solicitously offering peanuts every hour.

"Sorry, should I move? I could procure a pillow, I'm sure," Neal says, icing it with the smile Peter has seen often recently.

Peter shrugs with only the shoulder Neal can touch. "Fine." When Neal, imitating the steward's earnestness, checks Peter's face it has the smile that on Peter only announces eagerness. It's more than fine, then, Neal breathing down his neck.

They circle around each other like lemmings unwilling to bring the other down.

Peter throws in so much more effort, although in the weighing of _purpose_ Neal would prevail. Neal has a much tighter grasp on the endgame than a man relying on a flurry of signals. He and Peter both appreciate body language, although he prides himself in his coverage of the nonverbal thesaurus and Peter mastered a limited set. Peter's range, one option for each side of him, still hews a polygon going completely around. They circle about each other enduring on the proper script. Neal tosses his rubber band ball during insignificant stretches at his desk and thinks about unraveling this— whatever it is— they've circumscribed themselves in.

So after the lawmen leave, and it's just Peter and Neal in the alley listening to their sirens recede, Neal doesn't try to reassert his personal space when Peter steps toward him like an owner loosening a leash. Neal never gives up anything without salvaging something for himself. He crowds Peter into the wall as Peter says "Neal Caffrey" as he would describe a useful possession, and Neal stretches his neck as he would before jogging for exercise, and he replies, "Here goes." Peter's tongue is very warm under the startled O of his lips.

"Neal," Peter asks, when he's shoved Neal against the opposite wall in a mixture of surprise and frustration. "Neal. Did I say something wrong?"

"There aren't any law firm visits in the near future," Neal says, for something to say. Although there are dozens within his radius and none at all in Peter's life.

"Okay. If you say so."

Peter presses his body back against Neal's slumped shape.


End file.
